


Thief

by hyuckleberryfinn



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Enemies, M/M, this might hurt.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 23:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17171318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyuckleberryfinn/pseuds/hyuckleberryfinn
Summary: Haechan puts out his hand, and Mark takes it gingerly. When Mark goes to pull his hand away, the other boy lingers, his fingers stroking the inside of Mark’s palm oh so softly. Mark’s breathe hitches. He finally looks up at the boy’s face and catches the end of a small smirk, before it changes to an otherwise sweet smile.Mark just clutches his hand behind his back. It still tingles, just a little.-boy meets boy, boy befriends boy, boy & boy fall in love, boy ***** from boy, boy & boy are never happy again.





	Thief

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic based on the Bollywood movie Lootera. It's not happy. Enjoy! Please don't spoil part two of the movie for anyone btw, my part two is going up next week.
> 
> I've been as deliberately as vague as possible with the setting, don't get too caught up, haha.

The first thought that came into Mark’s head was how out of place the young man looked in their living room. He clashed against the furnishings, burnished auburn hair and golden brown skin making everything around him seem pallid. Mark has never seen hair like that, or skin like that. He thinks that’s a good enough reason to stare, just a little longer, as he stands in the doorway not entering the room. But the boy must have felt his eyes on him, and he looks away from the vase he was inspecting to stare straight at Mark, his gaze firmly rooting Mark to the spot, dark and unyielding.

“Mark! There you are,” his father says, finally noticing him, breaking the spell.

He motions for Mark to join him and the two strangers in the living room. Mark complies, not as reluctant as he had been, just a little earlier when Jeno had called him down to the living room. A faint buzz settles over his skin as he makes his way across, and he can tell the younger stranger is still staring at him, even as he carefully avoids his eyes.

The older one holds out a large hand with a grin. “My name is Johnny Seo, and this is my cousin Lee Haechan. We’ll be here over the next few weeks as the brokers for the art auction. I heard that you were a writer? We’ll try not to bother you and your important work too much.” He winks at Mark, and Mark tries not to be too thoroughly charmed.

Haechan also puts out his hand, and Mark takes it gingerly, finally looking up to the boy’s face. His hand is warm, callused,  _painter’s fingers,_ Mark thinks to himself distractedly. When Mark goes to pull his hand away, the other boy lingers, his fingers stroking the inside of Mark’s palm oh so softly. Mark’s breathe hitches. He finally looks up at the boy’s face and catches the end of a small smirk, before it changes to an otherwise sweet smile.

Mark just clutches his hand behind his back. It still tingles, just a little.

 

-

 

Mark doesn’t run into the brokers as much as he expected over the next couple of days. Which makes complete sense considering that he was busy trying to avoid them, cooped up in the upper west wing of the house, trying to write. And they were probably busy too, busy cataloguing and categorising and valuing the different antiques and old family heirlooms that made up a great part of his future inheritance. That were being sacrificed for the benefit of Mark and his father and their comfort.

Gone were the days that his family could live off the land and their tenants. The farms were left unattended as villagers fled to the cities for work in factories that could pay better. Modernity was looking around the corner, at Mark and his father and their very ancient way of life, and she wanted them to pay a price. So, they did.

What didn’t make much sense was the disappointment that washed over Mark as he walked past rooms, only to  _not_ catch a flash of auburn hair.

He would sit up in his room and stare at the blank pages of his book and wonder about him. Just a little.

Mark finally does catch them, three days later. He pulls out his old sketchbook, frustrated by his writing block, and goes to the library. It tended to help him, sketching the courtyard and garden from the large window in the left alcove, the one with the best light. He tells himself it has nothing to do with who was occupying the room currently, according to Jeno.

It’s actually Johnny who opens the library door, blinking owlishly at Mark before he grins, easy. “Young Master,” he mocks, lightly, making Mark fidget a little, “what brings you here?”

Mark tries not to stammer. “I was hoping to sketch from one of the library windows?”

The request makes Johnny pause for a second, and a glint comes into his eyes as he notices the sketchbook in Mark’s arms. He then breaks back into his wide grin.  _It comes too easily to him_ , Mark thinks, and then shelves that thought aside quickly. Mark spies Haechan sitting on one of the desks, past Johnny as he opens the door and cocks his head in welcome. The sunlight streaming in through the windows turned his hair almost red, like he was aflame.

He doesn’t look up at all as Mark enters the room and Mark has to keep himself from coughing to catch his notice. The boy is bent over some books, furiously scribbling away, gold wire spectacles perched on his nose. Mark only realises he’s staring again when Johnny murmurs something as he moves past him, and Mark starts, wondering if he catches the edge of a smirk fading away. Mark feels his cheeks flush hot and he thinks he’s probably embarrassed himself enough at this point, so he slinks away to the alcove.

It does work a little, to be sketching again, though. All of Mark’s worries fade to a buzz in the background when he’s sketching. He was never particularly good at it, not like his friend from school, Renjun, but it always tended to relax him.

His father, the money, the writing- it all gets lost in the haze of trying to capture the light as it hits the large oak tree, the interplay between the sharp lines-

Someone coughs right behind him, and the hairs on the back of Mark’s neck stand up, and his hands slip, almost ruining the line of the branch he was currently trying to capture.

 “Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you.” His voice is high but somehow husk and soft at the same time around the edges. Haechan didn’t sound all that apologetic, but then again, Mark wasn’t really being disturbed. If he was being honest.

Mark puts his materials down to smile at him, shaking his head slightly. “It’s fine. It’s nothing important. I’m just bored.”

Haechan’s eyes flash, and Mark wonders if he’s given too much away. He leans onto the window casually, looking down to Mark where he was sitting. And Mark was a little entranced. It’d been awhile since he’d been able to talk to anyone new, anyone his own age, really. But Haechan-

The boy in question smiles, and it’s a bland smile. His eyes were anything but. “Not much to do around here, is there? I prefer the city myself, I think,” He says, finally looking away from Mark out to the garden, gaze narrowing as he looks out to Mark's home. And it sparks something in Mark.

“Oh, no, I actually love living here,” Mark says, sharp. He had, of course, recently written two whole pages to Renjun about how the banality of country life had been draining him of all creative energy and that he despaired that he would ever write anything of note as he withered away in his room in this godforsaken house, to be forgotten in the annals of history, forever.

But the godforsaken house was  _his_ godforsaken house.

Haechan raised his eyebrows. “Really?” His tone was challenging.

“It’s so peaceful. Quiet. It’s so picturesque. Especially in summer. The lakes and the woods surrounding the house are beautiful especially, at twilight. And the village always holds a summer fair. The church is lovely too. You see the true life of the people. It’s perfect for me, as a writer.” Mark was babbling. It was an unfortunate habit of his that tended to pop up when he was particularly skittish. It didn’t help that the smile that was playing on Haechan’s lips got wider with every word he said.

The smile made him nervous. He wanted to capture that smile.

“Well then,” Haechan said, his eyes now casting down and away, demurely, “Maybe you should show this city boy around. I’d love to see everything like you do.” The smile on his face. It reminds Mark of a phrase his mother would say sometimes.  _Like the cat that got the cream._ He pauses, and his eyes alight on Mark’s sketch again. “Maybe you could even teach me to draw.”

_Ah._ Right _._ Mark fiddles with his pencil and tries not to let a similar smile break out on his face. “I think that could work.”

 

- 

 

It was easy convincing his father of the merits of pulling Haechan away so they could wander off on their own every day. Mark had a whole list of arguments, strategies, quotes to use but he had underestimated, possibly, how his father saw him. Or pitied him.

It was more difficult for Haechan, however. When Mark went to the library the next day, Johnny opened the door and the polite smile on his face didn’t reach his eyes. Behind Johnny’s shoulder, Haechan was already looking up at him from his desk behind, and he slowly shook his head.

They didn’t talk that day. Mark’s stomach twisted the entire time he was up in his sketching alcove, and the results were awful.

The next day is more successful. Johnny opens the door again, and the smile is just as polite, but the eyes are not as hostile. They look evaluative. Almost wary. Mark tries to take it as a good thing.

“I understand you’ll be showing Haechan around, a little, while we’re here.” Haechan is standing up, leaning on the desk, arms folded, not looking at Mark at all. Mark doesn’t know what to make of it.

He looks back at Johnny. He nods. He’s not sure what to say, here.

‘That’s really good of you. Thank you. As long as our work isn’t affected, I’m sure it’ll be nice for him to be shown around,” Johnny says, and although he’s looking at Mark, it seems more directed towards the boy in the background. Haechan nods slowly as he finally looks up, face as somber as Mark’s ever seen it.

Mark remembers to reply to Johnny. “Of course. It’s no problem at all.” Johnny’s smile fades a bit. “Good.”

 

-

 

“Honestly, your cousin is scary.” Mark tries not to sound too cowed about it.

They’re lying by the smaller lake, drawing materials all over the place, lazing around under the canopy out of the heat. It’s their fourth lesson. More like outing. Haechan can still barely draw a straight line. Honestly, Mark thinks he's making fun of him.

Mark doesn’t know if Haechan heard him. He’s lying on his stomach, head comfortably pillowed in his arms. The sunlight dapples his hair auburn and chestnut brown and Mark tries to commit it to memory. Draw it later at night. For the moment, though, he just wants his attention.

“Honestly, your cous-” Haechan’s hand comes out and almost wacks Mark across the mouth, Mark lets an out an oof of surprise.

Haechan whips his head around, almost shooting up into sitting. He looks a little dazed. “Fuck, I was finally asleep.” No apology.

His eyes are a little hazy with sleep and the way he’s pouting and rubbing at his eyes makes Mark snort. “Are you sure you’re older than me?”

Haechan pauses. His hand whips out to twist Mark’s ear, and Mark yelps, laughing.

“Don’t question your elders, dongsaeng,” Haechan reprimands, eyes twinkling. He turns back around to lie down next to Mark, stretching out as he settles down.

“It’s because of you I’m not sleeping well,” He adds, softly. Mark’s throat goes a little dry. “Why is that?”

“I have work to do,” Haechan replies, sounding a little distant. Of course. He’s not even paying any attention. Mark wants to laugh.

Haechan suddenly turns to face Mark. “If I’m spending time with you during the day, I can’t help Johnny out. So, I do my bit at night. Feeling blessed by the magnanimity of my presence?” He bats his eyelashes.

Mark rolls his eyes. “Cursed, maybe.” He dodges the hand Haechan tries to pull his ear with again, and watches as he settles down, back on the grass. He can see the bags under his eyes now, and a twinge of something, mostly guilt, goes through him.

“You don’t  _have_ to spend time with me. You know.” Mark tries his hand at nonchalance. He looks at Haechan out of the corner of his eyes, but Haechan doesn’t react; head cradled in his arms, eyes closed, peaceful.

His reply is lazy, soft. “I like spending time with you.”  
Mark scoffs, but his heart racing a little, chest feeling a little tight.

Haechan still has his eyes closed (thank god), but he grins at Mark’s reaction. “It’s true. I don’t often get to spend time like this.” The smile fades a bit, at the end, eyes fluttering open.

“Because of your work?”

Haechan nods slowly, and his face grows a little impassive. Mark doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all, fiddling with the grass.

“We always move around.” Haechan’s voice is quiet, a little contemplative. “We have to, and we have, ever since I was a kid. All my family do. Some of my other cousins are about my age but I don’t always get to see them, because we tend to move on every month or so.”

“Not easy to make friends that way,” Mark says. And Mark understands, just a little. He thinks of the way he and Jeno drifted further apart every year as he came back from school, and the way they could barely hold a conversation now.

“Yeah, I don’t make new friends that often,” Haechan replies, finally looking at Mark, and Mark knows what he’s really asking.

He wants to say yes. Instead he just smiles. Haechan still seems to get the memo, though, and he scoots closer to where Mark is lying down.

Their pinkies touch, but they both pretend not to notice.

 

-

 

“Where the hell are you taking me?”

Haechan sounds more annoyed than excited and Mark takes it personally. He draws up short.

“Fine.” He sounds petulant. “I won’t show you our secret hidden room.”

Haechan snorts at that and moves past Mark, snatching the torch out of his hands along the way, only to wave it in his face somewhat threateningly. “I don’t appreciate being dragged out of bed at 3am without prior notice.” He pauses. “But I am, now, interested.”

Mark snatches the torch back. “Good.” He says huffily.

The display room isn’t particularly hidden, or secret, but only he and his father had the key to it so it passes for the most interesting room in the house. Mark had already decided that he was going to show it to Haechan, a while ago. But he kept delaying. And then Johnny mentioned at dinner today that they were likely leaving in two weeks. So. Mark tries not to tighten his grip on the torch.

At first Mark wonders if Haechan understands the significance of what the room holds. He is so silent. But then he slowly moves to the Hokusai and his hands move up to the print, almost in reverence.

“Your father never showed us any of this.” His voice is hushed, in shock. He almost sounds relieved.

Mark scratches his head, slightly embarrassed. “One of my mother's relatives was a sympathiser. Pretty high up. It’s an old family secret but she ended up with a bunch of their, uh, rewards in her inheritance by chance. My father’s family, though, have always very publicly Anti-Japanese. He would have gotten rid of it all along time ago. But it’s all that’s left of her.”

Haechan doesn’t reply straight away, clearly thinking hard, distracted. “Mark, what’s in this room is worth five times more than anything your father has given to us to value.” He’s transfixed by the Hokusai. He hasn’t looked away once, his knuckles now going white from how tightly he’s holding his arms folded to his front.

‘It’s more in line as to what he’s hoping to get out of the auction, too.” His voice holds a sardonic edge now, too.

Marks feels his stomach clench in anxiety. He’d wanted to impress Haechan, not worry further about his father and their financial woes. “Do you think I should convince him to sell?” He hates how small his voice sounds.

Haechan finally turns around, and he gives a small, tight smile towards Mark. “Do whatever you want.” He still looks a little shaken, eyes flitting nervously all around the room. But then he pauses, and his eyes slowly focus back on Mark. “What happened to your mother?”

Mark sighs. This is not how he expected the night to go. He sits down on one of the now dusty chaises in the room and Haechan makes his way over to settle down next to him. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t repeat himself; he just sits quietly next to him. Mark likes the way he waits.

“She died when I was 8. Asthma attack. There’s not much that can help other than the epinephrine injection, and it had gotten misplaced somehow.”

The next part was harder. “I have asthma too.” Mark hears Haechan stir next to him, but he ignores it. “It’s why I'm here actually. I rarely get the attacks here. And the more time I spent in the city, the worse the attacks got, so when we had to sell one of the properties... It just made sense."

He sighs, collapsing back on to the chaise. "You're right, it is awful here. I miss being in the city. I miss my friends.”

“She died when you were 8..." And Mark wants to laugh. Of course, he would see through Mark's attempt at steering the conversation. The last two weeks had shown him that Haechan had a way of picking up on unsaid things. Mark just had a lot of things unsaid.

"Were you there? When she died?” Haechan asked, tone measured. Mark just sighs again.

“I don’t remember much of it.” The servants flashing around, his father weeping at the bedside, Jeno’s father asking Jeno to take Mark away. He still remembers how it sounded, though, at the end. “She passed away at our other home, near Taebaeksan. She loved it there, it was her childhood family home. Would take us every year, even though she would get sick. My father hates the place now. But he won't sell it.”

“That and this,” he gestures around the room, “are all we have left of her.”

Haechan doesn’t say anything for a while. But then Mark feels his hand being covered by much warmer ones. And until that moment, he hadn’t realised how cold his hands were. Haechan turns Mark’s hand over in his, and threads his fingers through, and Mark can feel the heat travelling up his arm, through his body, warming his cheeks with a blush. They don't dare look at each other.

“My parents died too, when I was a baby. I don’t remember them much at all,” Haechan laughs, but it’s humourless. He just looks down at where his hands are playing with Mark’s fingers.

Mark blanches. “I’m- I’m so sorry.”

Haechan finally looks up, blinking at Mark, almost nonplussed. “Why would you be sorry?”

Mark feels as confused as Haechan sounds. “It’s awful. Not having a parent.”

Haechan blinks slowly, in realisation. “I have my uncles. They took me in. They took care of me.” He smiles at Mark, almost as if to comfort him. “Don’t worry about me. I have my family. I know how important they are.”

His eyes go a bit distant again. He does that a bit, Mark notices. He’ll be here and then suddenly, utterly, faraway. “I owe them my life,” he says simply.

 “They’re lucky to have you,” Mark says, and it’s true. They are.

Mark’s never met anyone like Haechan before.

 ‘Just like your father is lucky to have you,” Haechan throws back, smiling, eyes fond.

Mark rolls his eyes, hoping to break the moment, and ends up looking back at the Hokusai. He thinks of how his father isolated himself from everyone around him after his mother’s death. He thinks about he’s mostly doing the same, for his father. He thinks about the boy beside him, and the way he has no roots, no lasting ties to anyone tangible, so that he can help the people who took him in.

Mostly he thinks of how lonely they all are, in the end. He grips onto Haechan’s hand tighter.

 

-

 

“I feel like all you do is sleep,” Mark calls out to Haechan, who’s currently lying down on one of the benches in the rose garden.

It has the intended effect; Haechan turns his head back around to poke his tongue out at Mark, before settling down in that position.

He calls out back to Mark, drowsily. “That’s your fault,  _young master._ You created more work for me and Johnny when you convinced your father to sell the display room items,” he says through a yawn. “Now we have double the amount of work to get through before we leave next week.”

Mark tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest, as he grips the pencil in his hand so hard it almost breaks through the page. His expectation had been they would delay when they left.

He pushes that aside to focus on the sleeping boy in front of him. Mark can get the way the light hits his features better now that he’s facing Mark, and he looks almost ethereal with the background of crimson roses behind him.

Haechan must not be as tired as he is normally, because Mark looks back up from his notebook to find teasing brown eyes staring right back at him.

“Young Master Minhyung....” And Mark has to close his eyes, both at Haechan’s impression of Jeno’s father and also at what’s about to come. “Are you  _sketching_ me?”

Mark doesn’t need to open his eyes to know the gleeful expression on Haechan’s face.

“No,” Mark tries his best to sound confident. “I’m writing.” He doesn’t look back up at Haechan, only vaguely aware the other boy is grinning like a madman.

“Oh.” He pauses, and Mark wrongly assumes for a moment that it’s all going to blow over. “So. You’re  _writing_  about me, then?”

“Yes- NO. No!” Mark lies through his teeth, completely aware that his face is the same colour as the roses surrounding them. “I am  _not_  writing about you.”

Haechan moves so fast, he’s a blur. One moment he’s sitting on the rose bench and the next he’s standing over where Mark’s sitting on the ground, snatching the notebook out of his hands. For a second Mark’s heart stops, and he can feel the colour draining out of his face as he watches Haechan look at the sketch. He can’t make out the expression on Haechan’s face, it just looks…  _arrested_. Then Haechan starts flipping through his notebook and the paralysis thankfully goes away and Mark tackles Haechan to the ground.

They’re wrestling on the grass for the notebook and honestly Mark is mad, well and truly, because how  _dare_ he try and look at his writing? The absolute embarrassment of the whole situation gives Mark the energy he needs to snatch the book out of the smaller boy’s hands and throw it away. Not that he really needed it. Haechan is laughing so hard he can barely catch himself, and Mark easily pins him down, straddling him, holding down Haechan’s hands above his head.

He’s so beautiful when he laughs. Mark tries to hold on to his outrage and it keeps slipping away.

“Don’t touch my notebook. Ever.” He shakes Haechan’s pinned hands for emphasis, despite the boy’s continued giggles. Mark tries not to break into a smile.

“Okay,” Haechan manages to get out, “I won’t.” He’s still giggling, but it’s fading.

They both realise the position they’re in at the same time. The blush comes back on Mark’s face as fast as it left... But now  _Haechan_  was blushing too.

It was faint, dusting his cheekbones lightly. But it was there.

_Right._

“Do you promise?” Mark doesn’t know why he’s whispering.

“Can’t make promises I can’t keep.” Haechan’s whispering too, and despite his words, the blush deepens. Mark feels himself leaning in, for something he can’t acknowledge quite yet.

Haechan’s voice stops him, slightly husky. “Who are you writing about then?”

The question catches Mark off guard and he doesn’t filter himself. “A friend.”

Haechan’s eyes shutter a little, and he slowly disentangles himself out, sitting himself down next to Mark, not meeting his eyes. “Just a friend?” Haechan asks, sounding somewhat unsure for the first time Mark’s known him.

“No.” Mark doesn’t even realise he’s spoken it out loud, until Haechan whips his head back around.

“No?” Haechan’s eyes are wide and searching as they roam over Mark’s face.

Mark’s throat is dry. “He’s more.”

Haechan leans in.

And then someone clears their throat. Loudly.

Mark whips his head around. Jeno is at the entrance to the rosarium, clearly trying not to laugh. Mark wants to die.

“Your father wanted to ask you and Mr. Lee and Mr. Seo for dinner tonight, as it’s the last Sunday dinner before they leave next week.” Mark wants to deck the smug smile off Jeno’s face, like he used to when they were younger. “It’s a shame you aren’t staying for the Harvest End festival next Saturday. It’s fun. Lots of activities for... friends.”

Mark doesn’t want to die anymore. Mark wants  _Lee Jeno_  to die.

Haechan shoots up from where he was sitting, shaking head, almost as if to clear it. “I should let Johnny know about dinner.” His voice sounds off, hoarse. He starts walking, completely ignoring Mark.

Jeno grabs him by his arm as moves past him, and he looks a little taken aback at whatever expression is on Haechan’s face. “Do you know where you’re going?” he asks, tone mild but there’s another question there that Mark doesn’t fully grasp.

Haechan pulls away, finally glancing back at where he left Mark in the grass, something like regret passing over his face. “Of course.” He turns away and walks towards the house, not looking back again.

He doesn’t come down for dinner. As it turns out, he wasn’t in the house at all.

“He had to leave for a few days,” Johnny says, something like pity in his eyes as Mark sits in his chair, in shock. “My uncle, Key, is a little sick, so one of us had to go visit.”

Mark stands up violently, the creaking of his chair finally alerting his father to the fact that there was something wrong. He waves off his father’s concern, feigning a headache. Really, he felt like vomiting.

Johnny comes out after him and grabs him by the shoulder. “He’ll be back, Mark. He had to settle up some things with our uncle. But he’ll be back before we have to leave for good.” The pity in Johnny’s eyes makes him want to punch something.

“Right.” Mark’s voice sounds as hollow as he feels currently. He pulls away from Johnny and walks away.

Johnny calls out to him, stopping him at the foot of the staircase. “It’s better this way.”

Mark turns back to stare incredulously.

Johnny’s face is impassable as his eyes are kind. “You should find your... friends, in people like you. Not people like us.” He gives Mark one last smile.

He turns away, back to the dinner room, leaving Mark feeling foolish, naive, and alone.

 

- 

 

Johnny doesn’t lie about Haechan. A week passes with neither hide nor hair of the boy and Mark has too much pride to ask of him. He just writes and writes and sketches when he can’t write so that he doesn’t think of the boy who left him without a glance back in the rose garden. He ignores the library completely. He ignores Jeno’s worried looks. He ignores his father’s requests to come down for dinner. He tries not to spend too much time looking at the driveway, wondering whether a small auburn boy was going to return soon.

He doesn’t come down to dinner on Sunday. He sees Johnny depart in the afternoon without Haechan and decides to curl up in his bed instead, any urge to do anything gone.

At 8pm, he hears a knock. He moves over in his bed, happy to ignore it till he realises the knock was coming from his window and he sees Haechan sitting on the branch right outside it.

He moves silently to the window and crosses his arms. “I’m not sure why I should let you in.”

Haechan sighs. “Because you’ll get very upset if your favourite person in the world falls to their doom right outside your window.”

Mark scoffs, finally opening the window, and Haechan steps inside, dusting himself off.

Mark doesn’t say anything, only leaning against the wall, silent and angry, and unable to trust his mouth not to say something embarrassing.

Haechan scratches his head sheepishly. “So.”

He looks away from Mark and steps around the room looking anywhere but him. “Never been in your room before. It’s nice.”

He looks back at Mark and sighs, even deeper this time. “Okay. Please stop glaring at me.”

“How’s your uncle?” Mark’s proud of how cold he sounds.

 “Still pretty sick. Uncle Kibum’s not doing so well. We had a good talk though.”

Mark furrows his eyebrows at the name. “I thought his name was Key.”

Haechan pauses from where he’s looking at the sketches Mark has on his wall; some his, some that Renjun sent. “Yeah. It’s a nickname, Mark.”

He points to a sketch Renjun did of his cousin Victoria. “This one’s really good. Clearly not you.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “You want to get to the point?”

Haechan sighs again, but he turns back around, not facing away from Mark anymore. He fiddles with the dried flowers on the desk and then finally looks up at Mark. “I can’t stay here with you.”

It feels like a punch to the gut.

“You came back... all the way here… just to say this?” Mark whispers, emotionlessly.

“No! No. No,” Haechan blurts out, placatingly. “What I’m trying to say is that I can’t be here with you. Right now. But I might be able to. Later.”  His voice goes quiet. “If you want me to be.”

All Mark can hear is the sound of his heart pounding in his chest. “What do you mean?”

“My family aren’t doing too well right now. My uncle’s still sick and he needs help. I have things to do to help out, some jobs I have to finish… and I’ll visit when I can,” Mark adds hastily.

“But when I do finish... My uncle said I could do whatever I want. Maybe I’ll settle down around here for awhile,” he looks away from Mark, and a smile plays around the corners of his mouth. “It’s so peaceful. And quiet. Picturesque, one might say.”

Mark tries not to smile. “I think I might’ve said something similar, you know,” he says, feigning thoughtfulness.

Haechan grins at him from where he’s standing, and Mark can’t stop himself from smiling back.

“I was thinking we could go down to the village, for the festival,” Haechan asks, “... as friends.”

Mark laughs. “Sounds perfect.”

 

-

 

It  _is_ perfect. Mostly. They eat corn cobs, fresh from the grill, and Mark manages to impress Haechan in the ring toss, even when he loses. Of course, Haechan wins the balloon and dart game. Mark points out every landmark in the village, and every interesting story he has about the people around them, just hear Haechan laugh, and watch him crinkle his nose. He runs out of stories fast though. He can’t help but wonder what it would be like for Haechan to live here. He was so vibrant, while the town was so... dull.

He ignores the prickling in his chest. It didn’t matter. He was going to be here for Mark at the end of the day.

He also tries to ignore the way Jeno was stares at them through the night, something questioning in his eyes.

What he has trouble ignoring is the way Haechan seems to get more distant as the night progresses, a wariness that settles down on him. He keeps checking the clock.

Mark knows what that means. He ignores that too.

At five minutes to 11pm, Haechan pulls Mark gently away from the crowd of people watching Jeno’s older brother sing. He tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest as they make their way towards the main road, pinkies linking, silent.

There’s someone waiting to pick up Haechan at the main road, and he waves at them and turns back to Mark. “I have to-”

 “-Don’t say it.” Mark interrupts, waving it off. “Just tell me you’re coming back.”

 “I promise I’m coming back,” Haechan smiles at Mark, relaxing again, slightly.

 “You promise?” Mark kicks the dirt path, unable to look up.

 “I don’t make promises I can’t keep, remember?” Haechan laughs, and Mark can look up again.

They just look at each other, for a long moment. Mark tries to commit his face in the moonlight to memory. He needs to draw it later.

Haechan opens his mouth, probably to say goodbye, but Mark doesn’t let him. He pulls him in for a kiss instead.

It’s a little desperate. A lot of teeth and tongue and longing and uncertainty and Mark can almost taste the secrets Haechan’s held back on his tongue. He ignores it. Mark is good at ignoring things.

And then they part and they’re both breathing fast, a little distressed, and Haechan whispers against Mark’s lips that he has to go, and he does, but then he wheels back again to press up to Mark again, kissing so hard that Mark wants to flinch at how bruised their mouths will be the next day.

And then he’s gone.

So Mark goes home. A little empty, a little scared.

He passes Jeno on the way back, and to his credit Jeno looks mostly concerned, not teasing, and he falls into step with Mark.

“Loverboy gone?” Okay, maybe not all that concerned. Mark pushes Jeno. Jeno just laughs, and Mark thinks it’s nice to maybe at least have this back.

“He’s gone to take care of his family. His Uncle Kibum is sick.”

Mark only realises Jeno has stopped in his tracks when he whirls Mark back around, eyes wide, looking like he’s seen a ghost. “Jeno, what’s wrong?”

“I thought his uncle’s name was Key?” Jeno’s eyes are looking panicked.

“No... He said that was a nickname, his uncle’s name is Kibum.” Jeno’s hands are digging painfully into Mark’s shoulder and Mark grabs onto them. Jeno’s eyes aren’t even focused on him.

“Jeno, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?” Mark asks, panic bubbling up from where it had been sitting in his stomach. He realises it’s probably been there since last week.

“I have to get my father,” Jeno mumbles, and then focuses back on Mark, something like shock in his eyes. “Mark. There’s a gang of thieves who have been conning people out of their belongings, their valuables, their homes. The police shot and injured one of the ringleaders a couple of weeks ago, but his friends slipped out of the hospital just last week. His name is Kibum.”

It was funny how Mark’s whole world could be shifted and changed irrefutably within space of four words. He doesn’t even register that Jeno leaves him on the path, he doesn’t even process what Jeno had said to him after the revelation.

He just stands there, numb, all emotion leaking out of him, out of the wound left by one Lee Haechan.

He starts running back to his house, barely looking to see where he was going, only one thing on his mind. The truth is, he knew something was wrong. He’d known there was something wrong the entire time. He can sense the truth, the heaviness of it, in what Jeno said.

He just needs to be sure.

So, he tears up to his room, nearly tripping over the staircase in his haste. It looks ransacked, all of his sketches, his drafts, his writing and his books, notebooks and sketchbooks all over the floor. Of course. He opens up his sketchbook and-

And they’re all gone. Every sketch he’s done of Lee Haechan has been ripped out of this sketchbook. And the other one. Even the one he keeps under his bed.

Every trace of Lee Haechan has been ripped out of his life. Along with every trace of who Mark used to be.

He finally understands,  _now_ , what alone means.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hahahahahaha
> 
> anyway didn't mean for all their hangouts to be hyuck sleeping but i may have got a little caught up with recent developments and well
> 
> #GetWellSoonHaechan #PleaseRestSoonMark
> 
> as always, please talk to me! feel free to send me critique, questions and suggestions, hate, declarations of love, tell me u care about me and then rob me dry etc.:
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/hyucklesberry)/[cc](https://curiouscat.me/hyucklesberry)
> 
> p.s. the jaemin tag is there for a reason! i love nahyuck!  
> [cackles maniacally]


End file.
